'Perhaps you may- who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs.
Reed?'
'I think not, sir.'
'None belonging to your father?'
'I don't know: I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I
might have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew
nothing about them.'
'If you had such, would you like to go to them?'
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to
children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable
poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,
scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices:
poverty for me was synonymous with degradation.
'No; I should not like to belong to poor people,' was my reply.
'Not even if they were kind to you?'
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of
being kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their
manners, to be uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw
sometimes nursing their children or washing their clothes at the
cottage doors of the village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough
to purchase liberty at the price of caste.
'But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?'
'I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a
beggarly set: I should not like to go a-begging.'
'Would you like to go to school?'
Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie
sometimes spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks,
wore backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and
precise: John Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John
Reed's tastes were no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of
school-discipline (gathered from the young ladies of a family where
she had lived before coming to Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her
details of certain accomplishments attained by these same young ladies
were, I thought, equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful
paintings of landscapes and flowers by them executed; of songs they
could sing and pieces they could play, of purses they could net, of
French books they could translate; till my spirit was moved to
emulation as I listened. Besides, school would be a complete change:
it implied a long journey, an entire separation from Gateshead, an
entrance into a new life.
'I should indeed like to go to school,' was the audible
conclusion of my musings.
'Well, well! who knows what may happen?' said Mr. Lloyd, as he
got up. 'The child ought to have change of air and scene,' he added,
speaking to himself; 'nerves not in a good state.'
Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard
rolling up the gravel-walk.
'Is that your mistress, nurse?' asked Mr. Lloyd. 'I should like
to speak to her before I go.'
Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way
out. In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I
presume, from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to
recommend my being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt
readily enough adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject
with Bessie when both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was
in bed, and, as they thought, asleep, 'Missis was, she dared say, glad
enough to get rid of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who
always looked as if she were watching everybody, and scheming plots
underhand.' Abbot, I think, gave me credit for being a sort of
infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss
Abbot's communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor
clergyman; that my mother had married him against the wishes of her
friends, who considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather
Reed was so irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a
shilling; that after my mother and father had been married a year, the
latter caught the typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a
large manufacturing town where his curacy was situated, and where that
disease was then prevalent: that my mother took the infection from
him, and both died within a month of each other.
Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, 'Poor
Miss Jane is to be pitied too, Abbot.'
'Yes,' responded Abbot; 'if she were a nice, pretty child, one
might compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for
such a little toad as that.'
'Not a great deal, to be sure,' agreed Bessie: 'at any rate, a
beauty like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same
condition.'
'Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!' cried the fervent Abbot. 'Little
darling!- with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet
colour as she has; just as if she were painted!- Bessie, I could fancy
a Welsh rabbit for supper.'
'So could I- with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down.' They went.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER IV
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FROM my discourse with Mr. Lloyd, and from the above reported
conference between Bessie and Abbot, I gathered enough of hope to
suffice as a motive for wishing to get well: a change seemed near,-
I desired and waited it in silence. It tarried, however: days and
weeks passed: I had regained my normal state of health, but no new
allusion was made to the subject over which I brooded. Mrs. Reed
surveyed me at times with a severe eye, but seldom addressed me: since
my illness, she had drawn a more marked line of separation than ever
between me and her own children; appointing me a small closet to sleep
in by myself, condemning me to take my meals alone, and pass all my
time in the nursery, while my cousins were constantly in the
drawing-room. Not a hint, however, did she drop about sending me to
school: still I felt an instinctive certainty that she would not
long endure me under the same roof with her; for her glance, now
more than ever, when turned on me, expressed an insuperable and rooted
aversion.
Eliza and Georgiana, evidently acting according to orders, spoke to
me as little as possible: John thrust his tongue in his cheek whenever
he saw me, and once attempted chastisement; but as I instantly
turned against him, roused by the same sentiment of deep ire and
desperate revolt which had stirred my corruption before, he thought it
better to desist, and ran from me uttering execrations, and vowing I
had burst his nose. I had indeed levelled at that prominent feature as
hard a blow as my knuckles could inflict; and when I saw that either
that or my look daunted him, I had the greatest inclination to
follow up my advantage to purpose; but he was already with his mama. I
heard him in a blubbering tone commence the tale of how 'that nasty
Jane Eyre' had flown at him like a mad cat: he was stopped rather
harshly-
'Don't talk to me about her, John: I told you not to go near her;
she is not worthy of notice; I do not choose that either you or your
sisters should associate with her.'
Here, leaning over the banister, I cried out suddenly, and
without at all deliberating on my words-
'They are not fit to associate with me.'
Mrs. Reed was rather a stout woman; but, on hearing this strange
and audacious declaration, she ran nimbly up the stair, swept me
like a whirlwind into the nursery, and crushing me down on the edge of
my crib, dared me in an emphatic voice to rise from that place, or
utter one syllable during the remainder of the day.
'What would Uncle Reed say to you, if he were alive?' was my
scarcely voluntary demand. I say scarcely voluntary, for it seemed
as if my tongue pronounced words, without my will consenting to
their utterance: something spoke out of me over which I had no
control.
'What?' said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold
composed grey eye became troubled with a look like fear; she took
her hand from my arm, and gazed at me as if she really did not know
whether I were child or fiend. I was now in for it.
'My Uncle Reed is in heaven, and can see all you do and think;
and so can papa and mama: they know how you shut me up all day long,
and how you wish me dead.'
Mrs. Reed soon rallied her spirits: she shook me most soundly,
she boxed both my ears, and then left me without a word. Bessie
supplied the hiatus by a homily of an hour's length, in which she
proved beyond a doubt that I was the most wicked and abandoned child
ever reared under a roof. I half believed her; for I felt indeed
only bad feelings surging in my breast.
November, December, and half of January passed away. Christmas
and the New Year had been celebrated at Gateshead with the usual
festive cheer; presents had been interchanged, dinners and evening
parties given. From every enjoyment I was, of course, excluded: my
share of the gaiety consisted in witnessing the daily apparelling of
Eliza and Georgiana, and seeing them descend to the drawing-room,
dressed out in thin muslin frocks and scarlet sashes, with hair
elaborately ringleted; and afterwards, in listening to the sound of
the piano or the harp played below, to the passing to and fro of the
butler and footman, to the jingling of glass and china as refreshments
were handed, to the broken hum of conversation as the drawing-room
door opened and closed. When tired of this occupation, I would
retire from the stair-head to the solitary and silent nursery:
there, though somewhat sad, I was not miserable. To speak truth, I had
not the least wish to go into company, for in company I was very
rarely noticed; and if Bessie had but been kind and companionable, I
should have deemed it a treat to spend the evenings quietly with
her, instead of passing them under the formidable eye of Mrs. Reed, in
a room full of ladies and gentlemen. But Bessie, as soon as she had
dressed her young ladies, used to take herself off to the lively
regions of the kitchen and housekeeper's room, generally bearing the
candle along with her. I then sat with my doll on my knee till the
fire got low, glancing round occasionally to make sure that nothing
worse than myself haunted the shadowy room; and when the embers sank
to a dull red, I undressed hastily, tugging at knots and strings as
I best might, and sought shelter from cold and darkness in my crib. To
this crib I always took my doll; human beings must love something,
and, in the dearth of worthier objects of affection, I contrived to
find a pleasure in loving and cherishing a faded graven image,
shabby as a miniature scarecrow. It puzzles me now to remember with
what absurd sincerity I doated on this little toy, half fancying it
alive and capable of sensation. I could not sleep unless it was folded
in my night-gown; and when it lay there safe and warm, I was
comparatively happy, believing it to be happy likewise.
Long did the hours seem while I waited the departure of the
company, and listened for the sound of Bessie's step on the stairs:
sometimes she would come up in the interval to seek her thimble or her
scissors, or perhaps to bring me something by way of supper- a bun
or a cheese-cake- then she would sit on the bed while I ate it, and
when I had finished, she would tuck the clothes round me, and twice
she kissed me, and said, 'Good night, Miss Jane.' When thus gentle,
Bessie seemed to me the best, prettiest, kindest being in the world;
and I wished most intensely that she would always be so pleasant and
amiable, and never push me about, or scold, or task me unreasonably,
as she was too often wont to do. Bessie, Lee must, I think, have
been a girl of good natural capacity, for she was smart in all she
did, and had a remarkable knack of narrative; so, at least, I judge
from the impression made on me by her nursery tales. She was pretty
too, if my recollections of her face and person are correct. I
remember her as a slim young woman, with black hair, dark eyes, very
nice features, and good, clear complexion; but she had a capricious
and hasty temper, and indifferent ideas of principle or justice:
still, such as she was, I preferred her to any one else at Gateshead
Hall.
It was the fifteenth of January, about nine o'clock in the morning:
Bessie was gone down to breakfast; my cousins had not yet been
summoned to their mama; Eliza was putting on her bonnet and warm
garden-coat to go and feed her poultry, an occupation of which she was
fond: and not less so of selling the eggs to the housekeeper and
hoarding up the money she thus obtained. She had a turn for traffic,
and a marked propensity for saving; shown not only in the vending of
eggs and chickens, but also in driving hard bargains with the gardener
about flower-roots, seeds, and slips of plants; that functionary
having orders from Mrs. Reed to buy of his young lady all the products
of her parterre she wished to sell: and Eliza would have sold the hair
off her head if she could have made a handsome profit thereby. As to
her money, she first secreted it in odd corners, wrapped in a rag or
an old curl-paper; but some of these hoards having been discovered
by the housemaid, Eliza, fearful of one day losing her valued
treasure, consented to intrust it to her mother, at a usurious rate of
interest- fifty or sixty per cent.; which interest she exacted every
quarter, keeping her accounts in a little book with anxious accuracy.
Georgiana sat on a high stool, dressing her hair at the glass,
and interweaving her curls with artificial flowers and faded feathers,
